If you had never moved to New York, do you think you and Mark would still have met? Bridget, a good friend, had once asked me this question.
No, of course not. I had replied, and I had meant it. If asked today, I’d still mean it.
She wants to believe in fate. Kismet. Soul mates. The idea that two people meant to be together will find each other. No matter what.
I don’t believe in this nonsense. I told her I’d have found someone else. Proximity is way more responsible for love than the quantifiable illusion of destiny.
This isn’t the story of how we met. Mark and I.
It isn’t a love story that began with a silly speed-dating event. We never had our first date at that dive bar.
I never felt the undeniable pangs of falling love too soon. Or how I denied it. How I was skittish to find myself getting more tangled in his life.
Or how I could tell how much he loved me without him even having to say it. How he adored me in the beginning up until almost the end. But there is always an end, isn’t there?
It’s not the story of how our lives mingled together.
Or how his friends became my friends. My friends grew to be his.
It’s not the story of how I thought we had the kind of relationship that would last. The kind of relationship people should be jealous of. The kind most people didn’t have.
It’s certainly not about how it ended. Horribly. Cruelly. Broken into pieces.
Nor is it even the story of how he came back one day, spouting words of how he’d changed and how he didn’t quite know how to let me go.
Or even how I agreed to give us another chance only to find out that nothing really changes.
This is the tale of two people and the choices that they make. Choices that lead people away from each other rather than toward each other.
I mean…does anyone really believe we still might have met? Despite taking different paths in life?
Sure. Anything is possible. At our core, our personalities would have been similar. Our interests, similar. So yeah, it’s possible. Probable, though?
Yet as we stumbled. As we teetered and blundered through a chance to reunite in spite of our very real-life complicated situation, I decided to look at our stories. Apart. Where would we be? Who would we be? Who would we love and who would love us?
This isn’t the story of us. This is the story of them.
Stay turned for Chapter 1: The Night We Never Met—Meg